


Threnody

by greerian



Category: The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: Angst, Elder Price/Elder Cunningham (background relationship), Family, Father-Daughter Relationship, Female-Centric, Friendship, Gen, Gen Work, Hurt/Comfort, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-15 02:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9215351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerian/pseuds/greerian
Summary: Exodus 11:4,6"And Moses said, Thus saith the LORD, About midnight will I go out into the midst of Egypt: And there shall be a great cry throughout all the land of Egypt, such as there was none like it, nor shall be like it any more."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Threnody, n: a poem, speech, or song of lamentation. 
> 
> I couldn't find a better word to describe Nabulungi's reprise of Hasa Diga Eebowai. There's also a song of the same name, [here](http://https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LvOoQ0Ff2nA), that was lovely to listen to while writing.  
> So I started writing this right after I saw the First National Tour's performance of the Book of Mormon. That's why Elder McKinley has brown eyes, and Elder Church does not look like Brian Sears, haha (those cast members are Daxton Bloomquist and Eric Geil, if you're interested. Most of the characters I wrote with that cast in mind, with the exception of Elder Cunningham. I just... really like Josh Gad's version of the character. But yes, this is in honor of Candace Quarrels' Nabulungi, more than anything, and in honor of me finally getting to see the God's favorite musical, live. 
> 
> Anyway: this is Nabulungi's side of the story, from someone who didn't appreciate the character for far too long. Almost a year since I tried to launch an effort to appreciate the Ugandan characters of the Book of Mormon for the first time, I've finally grown enough as a person to give her the tribute she deserves. Or- attempt to, anyway. Here's to Nabulungi Hatimbi, the hope of Kitgali.

Nabulungi Hatimbi is the best English speaker in Northern Uganda. Baba boasts about it to everyone he knows, and most people he doesn't, but it really is true. So it's Nabulungi the villagers send to deal with the new missionaries, Nabulungi who talks to the white families, Catholic and Lutheran and Evangelical and Baptist, to tell them their message won't work here. It's Nabulungi who always tells them, and always watches them leave a month, or a week, or even a few days later, disheartened and shaking their heads. She tries to tell them; she says to each group that others have tried, and others have failed, but- 

"Of course they did," they all say. "They weren't the right _kind_ of missionaries." 

Nabulungi doesn't think the 'right kind' of missionary is out there. 

Years pass in this way. There is a little bit more food than there was when she was little. There is a little bit less fear. There is a new, rising warlord, but for now Baba says not to be worried. 

And new missionaries come to town. 

These missionaries are not like the others. They are young and handsome and all in white shirts. _Do they know how fast those will stain?_ Nabulungi thinks. But the missionaries smile at her as they move into the dilapidated Western-style house at the Northernmost part of the village, and when she warns them - as she always does - the leader, so very tall and blond, says "Thank you, Miss Hatimbi. We'll take your advice into consideration." 

That's never happened before. 

These missionaries are no more successful than the ones before, but these ones do not leave. A week, then two, then three. Baba shakes his head and laughs when Nabulungi brings them up, and says "They are young, and foolish. They will be gone any day now; watch and see." 

After a month, he doesn't say anything. 

The boys in their white shirts and black pants (which stay clean, to Nabulungi's surprise) are in the village often. Usually it’s because they're walking through to the market, but they smile and wave at everyone, and sometimes they stay and try to chat. At first, the chatting ended with them reaching for those little books in their pockets. Their hands wandered and like clockwork the villagers turned away in disgust, but she sees that less, now; less reaching, and less turning away. The boys also seem less happy now, but maybe that is because she has grown used to their faces. There is the leader, and with him the little one who always eats and looks sad; the handsome, dark-eyed one and the one with a strange, thin nose; the two tall ones who always look so serious; the one who walks like a woman; and the one with oiled hair and twinkling eyes that dart around a room (and over her body) with the speed of a snake. They are all taller than her, except for the elder with his pastries. Their skin is much lighter, and they all turn red in the sun. Their smiles are bright and warm. They talk like they have never been afraid in their lives. They are... strange. 

Still, it is nice to have boys around her age. Many of the villager's sons leave Kitgali to head to the city or join up with a warlord. Nabulungi is alone. She hears, of course, the older women hissing behind her back that she should be married by now; she's going to bring an angry, depraved warlord to their village and her fate will be on her own head, but Nabulungi holds her head up and does not listen. She is all her Baba has left in the world; she is all the village has hope in. And... who would speak with the white boys, if she were to leave? Chatting about the weather, anyone can do, but none of the villagers can speak like she can. 

"Why don't you ever have fun?" Nabulungi asks the leader one day. He has a funny name. _McKinley_ . Her tongue trips over it, sometimes. "You do not have to work, and you have money for food. You could have fun. Drink. Go see the women east of here." 

"We are not here to _have_ fun," he declares, shoving his hair out of his eyes. He smudges red earth from his hands across his forehead in the process. On some days, that hair holds high and proud and arched like grass in the wind, but there was rain this morning, and more to come: his hair lays flat against his forehead. "We are here to spread the word of the Lord. We are with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, and we-" 

"Yes, yes, I _know_ ," Nabulungi interrupts. "But I told you, your words will not work here. I thought you listened." 

The next shove of his makeshift garden tool - a broken off shard from a pot - squelches in the mud, he pushes so hard. "I did. But we can't stop our mission because of a few… _setbacks_. We have to persevere, no matter how high the cost." 

"Why?" Nabulungi toes at a pebble, rolling it under the ball of her foot. 

" _Why_?" Elder McKinley echoes. Now he stands up, prying his knees out of the muck. "Because we're sharing the gospel. Miss Hatimbi, the Book of Mormon is the way to salvation." 

The way he says that last word, there is something... She has seen that look in someone's eye, as they sell the last of themselves for food. In the face of Asmeret, when she married her husband at fifteen. In the corners of her Baba's mouth, after he comes back from Gotswana with a new drug he somehow found the money for. 

This Elder McKinley is desperate. 

_Whatever you are trying to find_ , she thinks, _it is not here. Not in Northern Uganda._ _  
_

He clears his throat, and smiles. "Now, you said something about seeing some women? Do you think they'd be interested in the message we have to share?" 

Nabulungi blinks. "They are interested in only one kind of message," she answers. 

"And that is...?" 

She rolls her eyes, then nods to the patch of fabric between his legs that is the only patch not muddied from his attempt at planting. He looks down, and turns bright red. 

"Do you mean-" A glance around, a lowered voice "-women of the night?" 

Nabulungi frowns. "No, I mean whores," she says. "What are you talking about?" 

It turns out there are words the white boys won't say that Nabulungi has heard since she can remember. It makes for something to laugh about with Baba over dinner. 

* * *

"I saw one of your boys out east," Nabulungi announces. "Why are you always working on that garden? It will grow, or it will not." 

"A garden needs _tending_ ," Elder McKinley declares. "I know it's not much of a garden yet-" More like two seedlings and a row of hills "-but patience, and hard work, and _dedication_ , that's... Wait, _my_ boys?" 

Nabulungi nods. "The short one, with hair like this." She slicks a hand back over her bunch of curls, and Elder McKinley's face clears. 

"Oh, Elder Church." 

She nods. His shoulders drop, and then- 

"Oh, no. No, no, no, you said east? Where those- the women are?" 

Again, she nods. Elder McKinley jumps to his feet, and pushes past her towards the house. He's muttering under his breath, his jaw clenched, and she only catches: 

"No, _no_ , he can't- that is not how you get over the loss of your _mother_ ." 

"What?" 

He stops. Turns. Straightens up and smiles. "I am very sorry you had to see such behavior from a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, Miss Hatimbi. That sort of thing is definitely against the missionary code of conduct, and, rest assured, Elder Church will face the consequences of his actions. Impurity is a _serious_ issue." 

Nabulungi steps forward. 

"He lost his mother?" she asks softly. 

Elder McKinley's eyes flick back towards the mission house, like he thinks someone will overhear. "Yes," he answers, after a moment. "He heard in a letter, just... last week." 

"So he did not get to say goodbye." 

McKinley clears his throat. "No, he did not. But, there is a time for grieving, and a time for... for rejoicing. Mrs. Church was a Godly woman who always followed the word of thechurch, and continued to love her husband through Christ, even when..." He swallows. "When it might have been difficult. Elder Church will see his mother again, in latter days. She's with Heavenly Father now, and that's _much_ better than anything she could have down here." 

Elder McKinley doesn't sound like he believes what he's saying. Nabulungi's fingers twist into the seams of her blue dress. "I can talk with him," she offers. 

"You...?" 

"I lost my Mama when I was twelve years old. I did not get to say goodbye, either." 

"Oh," he answers. "I'm sorry for your loss." 

"...can I talk to him?" 

"To Elder Church?" McKinley sighs. Those shoulders of his, they always sit so high and so straight, but they fall with his exhale, and he looks to the ground as he says "Would you? Nothing I... nothing I say seems to be helping." 

Nabulungi nods. That is how it was in her village. The few, the young, who had not lost their mothers to childbirth or their fathers to guns or their siblings to malaria or their grandparents to dysentery hadn't known what to say to her. It was the ones who had lost that didn't speak, but opened their arms and their hearts, and let her cry.   
Elder McKinley doesn't understand; he _shouldn't_ yet, but Nabulungi... she knows. 

"I will," she promises. "And... you should not blame him for what he did." The elder's eyes open wide, and she holds up a hand to stop his reasons before they can start. "My Baba did the same thing. It is pain only, not... not lust. It is not a sin, when it is that way, Elder." 

"Miss Hatimbi, you are not part of the church. I apologize, but you can't possibly say what is a sin or not." 

"...no," she admits. "But..." 

Elder McKinley straightens his shoulders, and she knows it is a lost cause. 

* * *

 "Elder Church?" 

She finds him back behind the mission house; it's the furthest he can be from the village. There's nothing to the north of them but the border. His back is against a tall _tugu_ tree, and when she speaks, his eyes snap back to the book in his hands. She walks on quiet feet to join him. 

"You know, there are ants that climb up that tree, and you probably will-" 

"I know." 

His gaze doesn't lift as he answers, even as Nabulungi watches an ant catch the edge of his shirt sleeve, and make its way down his arm. She reaches out to pluck it off. 

"Are you all right?" she asks. He isn't, obviously, but it is polite to ask, and will get him talking. 

"I guess Elder McKinley told you," he answers. "He sure does talk to you a lot, considering you haven't even thought about joining the church." 

Hm. Weird. "Friends do talk to each other," she says. "Even if they do not always have reasons to." 

He snorts. "Haven't you heard him say we're here to work?" 

"Yes. What does that have to do with anything?" 

Elder Church doesn't answer. 

"You must have friends, too, even when you work."

“Yeah, Elder McKinley isn’t your _friend_.”

“...yes, he is.”

“You don’t know about ‘flirt to convert,’ do you?”

“What… what is that?”

“Why don’t you ask him, sometime? Maybe during prime proselytizing hours.”

“Elder, why are you angry with me?”

Again, Elder Church doesn’t answer. After a while, Nabulungi shifts to sit cross-legged. She follows Elder Church’s gaze out, across the tangle of brush that starts a few yards away, and tries to understand what he sees without knowing. She sees a snake, but it is harmless, and it slithers away soon.

“I’m not,” he says, finally. “I’m not… angry with you. You didn’t-” At last, he does something other than look straight ahead: the elder ducks his head and swipes a hand across his eyes. “It’s not your fault.”

“It is not your fault, either,” Nabulungi responds, touching his arm in comfort. He shakes her off.

“I guess Elder McKinley didn’t tell you that much, after all,” he mutters.

“Do _you_ want to tell me?” she asks. “What happened? Why…”

“I don’t know,” Church replies. “I… okay, I do know, but why _now_ … why not any _other_ time I…” He breathes in; the catch in his inhale is audible. “My dad… he’s not… he drinks. Drank. A lot, while I was at home. That’s- I was glad to come to Uganda, at first, because I knew that Uganda was _literally_ the furthest away I could…”

Nabulungi nods.

“I don’t know when it started. I… my dad used to say it was when I was born, but he lied, too, along with drinking. And nobody listened, when I said so, so they didn’t… He’s… I have younger siblings, too, but we’re all close in age. My mom never said when he started drinking, either, but I’ve seen the pictures, of the two of them, before their wedding and right after, and my dad didn’t look the way he does now in those. I can see it. But there’s not a lot of pictures, after they brought me back from the hospital.”

Elder Church clears his throat. “So, my dad drinks. And he gets angry. He’s that kind of drunk - not happy or sad or anything like that. You know how different people-”

“Yes, I know,” Nabulungi answers. “I have seen it, more than you.”

“...right.” Elder Church returns his gaze out towards the northern border. “At first, it wasn’t much, but… well, you’ve seen that, too, I bet.”

Nabulungi nods.

“He would beat my mom,” Church says, without a change in his tone. “He only did it in front of us, once, but- I’m not some dumb kid. I knew what was going on. But, like I said, nobody believed me, and my mom never said anything. She was too smart for that. And… she kept us kids out of it. So, that…”

His voice is getting colder, as he goes on, Naba realizes. He is pushing himself away from the thought of it. That is not good. But he barrels on; she is too late to stop him.

“I went on my mission, and I thought it would make things better. At least, they couldn’t make them _worse_ . One less mouth to feed, and I worked- I worked _so hard_ to save up for this. None of it is my dad’s money. Not a freaking dime. And… and if it _was_ because of me, then… I was out of the house. I thought he would stop.

“But we’ve been here for months now. We have to send home letters every week. And… I had to tell him we haven’t had any baptisms. Not a single… That’s the entire _point_ of this. Nobody cares about us if we don’t… we _have_ to start getting somebody to listen, or they’re going to send us home. You don’t… it’s not supposed to be hard.”

Elder Church turns all of a sudden, and meets Nabulungi’s eyes. “I was prepared for this,” he says. “Weeks at the Missionary Training Center, years in Sunday School and at the temple. If you just have passion for the word, they say, it’ll all work out. Well, guess _what_ . We’re out in the middle of freaking _nowhere_ , Africa, and nobody gives a damn what we have to say!”

“Elder-”

“I lost my mom because of this!” he yells. “I lost my mom, over- over you and your people not _listening_! Because, because that’s what I had to tell my dad. No baptisms, no converts, not even anybody wanting to learn more, or… and I said that, in my letter, and he- he went off and got drunk and he… he didn’t… he didn’t hold back, this time.”

His chin quivers, and that’s all the warning Nabulungi gets before he’s setting his forehead on his knees and crying, crying so hard she can see it shake his body. “My sister had to call the ambulance,” he sobs. “My… my sister, Katie, she- she’s only fifteen, she didn’t… she doesn’t… and they told her my mom was d-dead, right there, with… with my little brother there, too. It’s her b-birthday, n-n-next week, and now… now they’re in f-foster care, and I’m never gonna get to s-see… my d-dad’s in jail, and I…”

“It is not your fault,” Nabulungi whispers.

There is a verse of the Bible Nabulungi heard, long ago, when she was still a child and the missionaries told children her age stories: _‘And there shall be a great cry throughout all the land of Egypt, such as there was none like it, nor shall be like it any more._ ’ It’s that verse that fills her head at the sound Elder Church cries, in that instant. She doesn’t keep away, then; she blankets herself over his hunched form, waving away Elder Davis as he comes running around the side of the house. Elder Church does not shake her off, so there she stays, holding him. Her chest presses against his back and shoulders; her arms loop down across his folded-up knees and his side. She lays her head on his bent one.

“If… if I had said something,” he says. “T-told _anyone_ , they could have g-gotten him some h-help. He wouldn’t-”

“You said they wouldn’t believe you, Elder,” Nabulungi murmurs.

“But if-”

“If I was American, my mother would not have died,” she answers. “If your mother had not married your father, she would have lived. If you were not here, I would not have known this, and if you were back home, I would not be here to tell you these things. There are ‘if’s, Elder, but it is not your fault.”

Elder Church doesn’t say anything to that. He only cries in her embrace, like a little child, and she holds on, until the sun sets and she hears lions in the distance. Then she picks him up, helping him to his feet, and leads him back to the house, to Elder McKinley’s open arms. 

* * *

 

Three months. The white boys don't leave their house to share their gospel anymore, but Nabulungi sees them more and more anyway. Sometimes because she is bored, and Baba does not think they are dangerous. When he is working, at least, and she can't play anymore with Abigail the goat, and the market has no new things to buy for trade, Nabulungi goes to the mission house. She does not ask Elder McKinley what ‘flirt to convert’ means.

The mission house is clean. The mission house is safe. The new warlord calls himself General Butt-fucking-Naked, and the things he does even Baba will not joke about. He is moving closer, but between he and the mission house is the rest of the village. Baba says it is the best place for her to be.

So Nabulungi goes. The denim-blue door of the house, and the white letters above it - painted by Elder Neeley one day, weeks ago - become familiar. She learns the boys' schedule: they run in the mornings, speak very bad Swahili after breakfast, read and read and reread those little books of theirs, pray, eat lunch, then do chores and talk to each other.

Sometimes the white boys play ball games outside, but they don't take off even their ties, and Nabulungi laughs when they sweat through all their layers. 

"Come on!" she yells. "Take off your shirts. It won’t hurt you!" 

Elder Church whoops and goes for his tie. 

"Stop that!" Elder McKinley swats his hand away, but he laughs. "You know the rules, Elder. Keep your clothes on, for gosh's sake." 

"Wouldn't you rather he take them off?" Elder Zelder asks, a few feet away. He smirks. "I've heard you'd like the view." 

Elder McKinley stops laughing. He stops, right in the middle of the clearing they made to play in, and Nabulungi thinks that if his face wasn’t red from the exercise, he would be white underneath. 

"...elders, I think it’s time to head inside, please." He points over to the door. "Now." 

"Elder McKinley?" Nabulungi ventures. 

A smile snaps back on his face like it never left. "Miss Hatimbi, if you don't mind, I believe District 9 and I need to- we have some issues to discuss. If you could come back later?"

So she does. Nabulungi returns early the next morning, as soon as Baba has left to work for the day. She raps her knuckles against the door, and no one answers. She tries again, harder. Still nothing.

Nabulungi frowns, and tries kicking it.

The thuds are enough, apparently, to bring Elder McKinley running. He shushes her before closing the door behind him, and joining her on the porch.

“What happened to you?” she asks, leaning in. “You look sick.”

He does. He has dark pits under his eyes, and the paleness she imagined yesterday is still there. He looks tired and worn, and like he is closer to ninety than nineteen.

He smiles politely, and steps away.

“I’m doing fine, Sister,” he replies. “Nabulungi. Miss Hatimbi. Not- you’re not part of the church. I’m sorry, that just slipped out.”

Nabulungi keeps frowning and trying to get closer. Elder McKinley keeps sidestepping, though, and backstepping, until his heel catches on the edge of the porch and Nabulungi has to grab his arm to keep him from falling off.

“Why do you look like shit?” she wonders. Then- “You smell like shit, too. Are those the clothes you wore yesterday?”

He turns red again.

“Miss Hatimbi,” he starts, but Nabulungi knows he’s about to lie and blurts out “What is ‘flirt to convert,’ Elder?”

He tries to back up again; this time, she lets him fall.

“Where on Heavenly Father’s green earth did you hear _that_?” he asks, staring up from the dirt.

“Elder Church,” she answers.

“Elder Church?” he echoes. “What- did- _what-_ ”

“He said we are not friends,” Nabulungi says, setting her hands on her hips. “And then he said that.”

Elder McKinley, mid-picking himself up, slips and hits the ground again.

“What is wrong with you?” Naba wonders, hopping down from the porch to pull him up. “You did not sleep, you did not bathe, you can’t even get up. Why are you doing this?”

“Miss Hatimbi, I am not-” He shoves her hands away. “This is not appropriate. My mission companion should be here, and the only reason he isn’t is because he hasn’t been sleeping well. This is a serious breach of rule 72, so I am going to head back inside. You may come back during proselytizing hours, and-”

“He said that, too,” she interrupts. “You have never said these things before. What is going on?”

“Miss Hatimbi…”

“My name is Nabulungi. You know that. Why don’t you call me that?”

“ _Miss Hatimbi_.”

Elder McKinley is glaring at her.

Nabulungi does not back up. She does not look away. But she wants to.

“We _are_ friends,” she says. “Right, Elder?”

“We… Miss Hatimbi, I really should explain something to you.” Elder McKinley folds his hands, then un-folds, then refolds them. He still won’t meet her eyes.

“...Elder McKinley,” Nabulungi ventures, “Elder Church says it is because my village does not listen than you will have to go home. Is that what you are going to say?”

Naba braces one foot behind her. If he says yes, she will run. Turn and run, all the way back to her hut. She does not want to hear anything he will have to say after that. If he says no, then… But Elder McKinley’s jaw drops. His dark eyes go wide. “Miss Hatimbi, _no_ ! District 9 is not about to leave. Gosh, I’ll have to have a word with Elder Church. Meeting with some resistance is _natural_ on a mission. It doesn’t mean anything’s wrong! I’m very sorry for this misunderstanding, but…” Elder McKinley straightens up, and, as best he can in his dusty, dirty uniform, pulls himself together. “But District 9 is _staying_ , right where it is. No one is going home.”

Slowly, Naba draws her foot back under her. “Good,” she says. “I did not want you to go.”

He smiles in reply. “Well, thank you,” he answers. “It’s good to hear we’re having a positive impact on the people of Kitgali.”

“On _me_ ,” she corrects. She frowns again. “You are my friend. That is why I do not want you to go.”

McKinley’s eyes dart to the side, and she stalks towards him again. “Do you not want to be my friend, is that why you are acting so-”

“You have to understand,” he says, putting his hands up, “I am District Leader, and as such, I have to- I am here on my mission, Miss Hatimbi, and I do have to do my duty, as a messenger of the gospel.”

She stops. “...does that mean it was all... We didn’t… we are not…?”

Elder McKinley clears his throat. “I like you very much, Miss Hatimbi, but my mission always has to come first, do you understand?”

“No,” she says. “No, I do _not_ understand. I thought we were friends! I do not have many friends. I thought you were different! Why did you _lie_ to-”

Elder McKinley rushes forward. “Shush!” he hisses. “Listen, I- okay, yes, we’re _friends_ . But that’s my mistake, all right? I let myself get _distracted_ , when I really… I have burdens on my shoulders that I can’t forget about. I can’t have fun here. The Lord called me to this work, and I can’t… I can’t forget why I’m here.”

“...oh,” Nabulungi says. “So… you should not have been talking to me.”

“No! Yes. Not-” Elder McKinley bites down on a sigh, and closes his eyes for a second, in one of his little prayers. “It’s not all black and white, Miss Hatimbi.Yes, I should be speaking with you. There’s nothing wrong with _that_. But my focus was… off.”

“Were you supposed to be flirting with me?”   

“No! No, certainly _not_. I don’t know why Elder Church said that to you.”

“Then what was wrong with your focus? Why is being friends a mistake? What is going _on_ , Elder?” Nabulungi wants to stamp her foot; this is frustrating! “Why won’t you tell me?”

Elder McKinley looks over her shoulder at the front door, then he finally meets her eyes. “I have a confession to make,” he says. The words come slow, like they hurt to say, and Nabulungi can feel her shoulders tensing up.

“What?” she asks.

“I…” Another look back; Nabulungi glances over her shoulder, just to make sure no one is standing behind her, and the second she whips back around Elder McKinley whispers something she can’t hear.

“What was that?”

“I said I’m- I… I’m sinning. I’m a sinner, in need of the Lord’s grace, and… and you…” As much as Nabulungi’s shoulders are hunched, Elder McKinley’s sink. In a very small voice, he says “You make me forget that.”

“...what are you talking about?”

He straightens up. “My testimony,” he starts, but Nabulungi shakes her head.

“What _is_ it, Elder? You keep telling me things without telling me _anything_ , and I just want to know-”

“I have thoughts about men!”

Nabulungi stares at him. He stares back, like he can’t believe he said that.

“...thoughts? Like…” Wracking her brain for a way he’ll understand, she tries “like the women out east?”

He nods. “Something like that,” he says. “And it’s a sin, a- an _awful_ sin, and Heavenly Father is not pleased with me. But that’s what my mission is for! I need to… it’s to show how repentant I am, and to prove to Heavenly Father I know and am capable of following his will, no matter what my… my fleshly desires may be. I’m getting better! I haven’t thought about anyone like that for a while now, really, but- but yesterday, I…”

“The ball game,” Nabulungi says, understanding. “When I told them to take off their shirts, you thought about that. And then…”

“Then Elder Zelder said… what he said,” Elder McKinley finishes. “Yes. That’s… it.”

“Oh.” Nabulungi doesn’t know what she should say to that. Elder McKinley is clearly waiting for something, waiting for a reply. He folds his hands in front of him and fidgets, shifting from foot to foot. “I am glad you’re not flirting with me.”

Elder McKinley stills. “Excuse me?”

Nabulungi shrugs. “I am.”

He blinks. She stares back, waiting. Nabulungi has said what she wants to say. Yes, there are laws against it. Yes, she has heard that men who like other men can be dangerous, but Elder McKinley never wears enough sunscreen and thinks the garden he planted can feed all the boys in his care. Elder McKinley is tall and strong, but also tired and young. Nabulungi can see his heart in his eyes; she isn’t scared.

He laughs.

“W-well,” he says, as he shoves a quivering hand into his hair, “I guess that’s… something.”

“It is,” Nabulungi replies, nodding. “Because I like being your friend.”

“That’s a first.”

“What?”

Elder McKinley clears his throat. The mess he made of his hair is sinking, flattening onto his head, and looks ridiculous as he straightens up and tries to look put-together again.

“Miss Hatimbi, I hope I answered your questions to the best of my ability,” he says. “I do have responsibilities to get to, though. Like… breakfast.”

“Is that what you were doing when I came?” she asks.

He ducks his head. “In a manner of speaking,” he answers. “I was… praying.”

“...how is that supposed to help with breakfast?”

“It- doesn’t. It doesn’t.”

“Oh.” Nabulungi frowns.

“So I should get back to that,” Elder McKinley says. “And… um, about all that…”

Nabulungi cocks her head and waits. Elder McKinley’s face wrinkles up as he thinks.

“Thank you,” he settles on. “For… listening. And… all.”

Nabulungi smiles.

She _is_ the best English-speaker in the village, after all. Nobody else could listen, could they?

* * *

“What on Heavenly Father’s great green earth is _that_?”

“Elder Church…” Elder McKinley starts wearily.

“No, seriously-” Poptarts says, “what is that?”

Nabulungi beams.

“The seller at the market said it was a recording device,” she answers, balancing the wooden box in her arms. “From the U.S., he promised. It’s like that texting device you told me about! I bought it for you all! Do you like it?”

The way Elder McKinley approaches, it looks like he’d rather not touch it with a ten foot pole.

“Yes, well,” he says, eyeing it. “Thank you for the gift, Miss Hatimbi. We… appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

Nabulungi isn’t stupid, and she isn’t blind. She sighs, and brushes the dirt off the top, and steps back so that all the white boys can get a decent look. Then with as much drama and as nice a flourish as she can, Nabulungi lifts the lid.

A chorus of understanding ‘oh’s follows.

“A _record_ _player_ ,” someone says.

“Record player, recording device, they are the same,” Nabulungi says, but she grins anyway. Now the boys are excited; now they swarm around the present in her hands. Elder McKinley, even, with dark circles under his eyes, looks curious as she shows it off.

“How did you manage to find a record player in this God-forsaken-”

“Elder Davis!”

“-Heavenly-Father- _blessed_ corner of the world?”

“But there’s no record,” Poptarts whines, poking at the spindle. “What’s the point of a record player without a record?”

Nabulungi smirks. “Elder McKinley, could you…?” she requests, handing the player off to him. He takes it, sinking under the weight, and Nabulungi slides a record out from underneath, brandishing it triumphantly in the air. A spattering of applause breaks out from the elders; Nabulungi bows.

This is what she wanted: they’re smiling now, and grabbing for the record as they clamber to take it all inside and give it a go.

“Elder McKinley?” Nabulungi ventures.

“Elders…” he sighs, folding his arms. “We _really_ should prepare for the new arrival. We have a lot of work to do to prepare the house, and-”

“And the new recruits won’t arrive until tomorrow night,” Elder Neeley finishes. “Elder McKinley, we have all day tomorrow to prepare, pray, and do everything you deem necessary. Today, though, Nabulungi has brought us a gift, and I am _sure_ Heavenly Father won’t have a problem with us appreciating it.”

“Elder Neeley,” McKinley protests, but the rest of the white boys are on Neeley’s side, adding their voices to the plea.

Elder McKinley caves. “All right,” he says, eyes closed in prayer. “Go have your fun, elders.”

Nabulungi makes sure somebody drags him along in the procession back to the mission house.

After a thorough cleaning of the record and the player, and after Elder Davis winds the thing into working, _and_ after Elder McKinley does his best to check the faded, peeling label on the disk for any trace of obscenity, they finally start the record.

It crackles, and the music starts quiet. They lean in to listen, all of them, but Poptarts sits up.

“It’s swing music!” he cries.

“Swing music?” Nabulungi asks.

“So it is,” McKinley whispers. A soft smile spreads across his face as upbeat notes on a piano grow louder, filling the room.

“What is swing music?”

“Hey, that’s kind of fun,” Schrader says, tapping his toes.

“Isn’t it?” Michaels answers. He’s grinning ear to ear as he starts to move, half-done shimmies and slow turns. “I was in the swing dance club at my school, and-”

Somebody snorts. “What kind of school did _you_ go to?”

Michaels plants his hands on his hips and declares “It was a charter school!”

“Nevermind that,” McKinley interrupts. “You know how to swing dance?”

“What is swing music?” Nabulungi whispers. Nobody answers.

The two of them, Michaels and McKinley, watch each other for a second. A woman’s voice emerges from the music. Then Michaels extends a hand. “Care for a dance?”

He winks. Elder McKinley blushes. “Don’t mind if I do.”

When they start dancing, Nabulungi finds out what swing music is for. Twisting, swirling, shiny black shoes tapping against the creaking wooden floor; they move like water in a river, bouncing off and flowing around each other. The others cheer and clap over the clicking of their shoes, and it takes a second for Nabulungi to hear them laughing. But they are red-faced, breathless - there’s excitement on both their faces. The tightness around Elder McKinley’s eyes is gone; he’s as happy as she’s ever seen him. As happy as when he first arrived, maybe.

Nabulungi claps along.

The others take a turn once Elder McKinley holds up his hands and declares he simply _can’t_ dance any longer. “Really, Elder Michaels- Elder, Elder, please, I haven’t danced like that in so long,” he says, edging his way out of Michael’s reach. “I need to catch my breath, and the other elders should have a chance to enjoy themselves, too.”

The scant space Neeley and Schrader cleared away to gather in fills up with boys trying to dance, and Elder McKinley slumps against the wall. Nabulungi makes her way over, and grabs his arm- but when he looks up, Elder McKinley is smiling.

“Thank you for this,” he says. “It’s… gosh, it’s going to be so distracting, but your gift…” He looks out over the small crowd, as Michaels tries to dip Poptarts and trips over his feet instead. Church laughs at them, even as his attempt at a shuffle knocks him right into the sagging couch. Nabulungi giggles.

“This is what I wanted to see,” she says. “All of you, having fun. Being… happy.”

Elder McKinley glances her way. “You know we’re not supposed to have fun on our missions,” he chastises.

And Nabulungi could fight him; she could say the things Baba says when he’s out to convince someone to get drunk with him: eat, drink, and be merry; for tomorrow we die.

She changes the subject instead.

“You said you get new recruits tomorrow?”

Elder McKinley straightens up like a shot. “Yes! New missionaries, a new set of companions are joining District 9. Straight from Provo, too! They’ll be just what this district needs. Fresh blood, fresh determination, you know? A three month stretch like we’ve had can be… discouraging.”

“Are you discouraged?”

“Me? Oh, _no,_ no, of course not! I’m- I think we’re making some progress. You know, Kalimba didn’t glare at me _once_ when I saw her at the market yesterday. And, _and_ Asmeret let me hold her son.”

“Which one?” Nabulungi asks, laughing.

“The…” Elder McKinley frowns. “The youngest?”

“Could it hold its head up?”

“Oh! Yes.”

“Close guess,” Nabulungi says. “But that is Marcus, her third.”

Elder McKinley chuckles and shakes his head. “Maybe not as much progress as I thought,” he says.

Nabulungi is still grinning, more than ready to keep teasing him about being proud of something as simple as holding a child, but then Elder McKinley meets her eyes. Something about his expression wipes the smile from her face.

“What is it?” she asks.

“I…” he starts. He’s still smiling, but the gleam of vulnerability in his eyes reminds her of that conversation in the garden, when she first thought Elder McKinley was looking for something. “I told them.”

“Told who what?”

“The elders,” he answers, tilting his head their way. “I told them about… my little problem.”

“Your… oh! What you told me, about-”

He nods quickly, cutting her off.

“I told them all; sat them down for a meeting, and… and confessed. They were so nice about it, though. I couldn’t believe it for a minute, but…” Elder McKinley shakes his head again, and folds his arms. “They all said they would pray for me,” he says softly.

“Oh,” Nabulungi says. “That is good?”

He straightens up again, and his smile flares bright. “Yes, it is! You wouldn’t believe how my ward’s bishop reacted when he found out, honestly, so this… I wasn’t expecting it in the least. It’s just as well, though. We couldn’t put up a divided front for our new missionaries tomorrow.”

Nabulungi nods, not fully understanding.

“Well,” he says. “I thought I should tell you, since we had that conversation the other day.” _Now_ he looks nervous, tapping his fingertips against his upper arms, his eyes flicking back to his companion and the others, and Michael’s frustrated directing.

When Nabulungi puts it together a second later, her jaw drops. “Because we are friends?” she asks eagerly.

Elder McKinley clears his throat, but he nods, and Nabulungi grins so much her cheeks start to hurt.

“Yes, anyway, thanks again,” he says quickly, as if he’s afraid she’s going to say something he doesn’t want to hear. “It wouldn’t do for the district leader to be down in the dumps when new recruits arrive. I… I really think they can turn things around here.”

Nabulungi reaches out to squeeze his arm. “I hope they do,” she tells him. It wouldn’t hurt anyone to have more smiles around.


	2. Chapter 2

The new missionaries arrive the next day. The whole village knows they are coming; for the first time, Nabulungi thinks, they are excited. Only because some of the other missionaries said something about building a well after the new arrivals got settled in, most likely, but it brightens faces, and gives Asmeret something better to talk about than the number of times her youngest woke her up in the night. Hope - that’s what it is. They have hope in these new missionaries. So does Elder McKinley. So do all the boys. Nabulungi lets the feeling fill her chest to bursting, and prays to Elder McKinley’s God they won’t disappoint them all.

Of course, it is General Butt-fucking-Naked’s men who greet them. Nabulungi hears screams from halfway across the village and goes running, but no one is hurt. No one seems surprised, either, except for the boys themselves, looking around themselves like babies who don’t know up from down.

Baba sets them right, though. And Baba will get paid tonight, so he is cheerful, even as he tells them about General Butt-fucking-Naked, and having no food, and his own illness. The boys’ eyes get wider and wider, but Nabulungi has not seen her village so happy in a long time. She dances, she laughs; she twirls the tall, handsome one around, and pretends not to see the horror in his eyes.

Baba says he can’t make the trip to the mission house, though. Sweat glistens in the soft dip at his temples and trickles down the lines of his face. Nabulungi presses a kiss to his forehead and promises to take care of everything.

“After all,” she says, “it isn’t like I don’t go there everyday.”

Baba smiles through the hitch in his breath, and pulls her close, a hand curving through the curls on the back of her head. “You are a blessing in my life, Nabulungi. Thank you.”

Nabulungi’s feet are light as she leads the new missionaries to the house.

When they arrive, though, she turns to face them. She looks them over, really looking for the first time. She saw that the fat one was fat, of course, and the tall one was tall, and they told her that they are named Elder Cunningham and Elder Price on the walk, but now, away from the general’s guns and the village’s dancing, she can see what they are like. And Elder Price…

He is very, very handsome. Handsomer than any man she has ever seen; the way he stands, straight and proud, tells her he knows it. Elder Cunningham watches her - has not _stopped_ watching her, since he first saw her at her Baba’s side and waved - but it’s under Elder Price’s gaze she feels her face flush. Elder Cunningham seems nice enough, but Nabulungi can see why Elder McKinley was excited about Elder Price.

* * *

The new boys do not waste much time. Before Nabulungi can make a trip to the mission house, but after her daily chores and a trip to the market (which means after the boys’ exercises and Swahili practice), they burst in, singing. That’s new.

So is the way Elder Cunningham shouts about a ‘door bell,’ and the way Elder Price looks both terrified and pleased when Kalimba emerges to yell at them. Even Elder McKinley learned quickly to _leave_ when Kalimba raised her voice, but this Elder Price grins that missionary grin and tries to tell her about that little book all the white boys keep with them.

“They’ve heard of the Bible,” Nabulungi interrupts. Kalimba has murder in her eyes, and Nabulungi doesn’t want the hope these two brought to die out _already_. “We all have. People come and tell us about Jesus dying for our sins once a year.”

But it isn’t sins that are the problem; it’s not having food. It’s not having medicines. It’s not having vaccines and vitamins and clean water or a cure for Baba’s AIDS. Those are the things that make people sin. Nabulungi doesn’t care about getting rid of the sins, and neither does anybody else. But Elder Price’s face falls, and Nabulungi thinks these two are not as different as she thought.

“ _Nothing_ gets better!” Kalimba spits. “Your Bible doesn’t work.”

“Well, _of course_ that didn’t work!” Elder Price exclaims. He’s smiling now, like he’s found the source of the problem and he’ll make everything turn out right. “Those were Christian missionaries. We’re Mormons!”

Nabulungi sighs. So they are just like the ones who came before, the ones who did not stay, and the ones who did not help.

“What’s the difference,” Nabulungi mutters. Kalimba, and Baba, and everyone who said the missionaries were useless was right: nothing gets better because of them.

Elder Price takes her at her word, though, and he sets off on a story the likes of which Nabulungi has never heard, not even from the ancient storytellers at the edges of the village, smelling of death and rot as their weary, croaking voices spun silk and gold images in the air. Elder Price doesn’t talk like that, though; he drags Nabulungi in, despite the sinking feeling in her gut. When he tells of the death of their prophet, Joseph Smith, she even feels _sad_. He does, too; he looks right into her eyes as he speaks, and he looks as broken up inside as Sadaka when her brother died.

 _Strange_ , she thinks, _that such a thing would move him_.

The other white boys don’t show emotion that easily. At least, not about anything but themselves.

But then something sparks in Elder Price’s deep brown eyes.

“Paradise,” he says, “a sparkling land called _Salt Lake City_.”

Elder Price mentioned a power, stirring inside, a moment ago, and Nabulungi didn’t believe him. But she feels it now.

Elder Price promises to take them there, and Nabulungi finds herself smiling. Here is a missionary who can help; here is one who can lead them to the promised land.

Paradise, in Sal Tlay Ka Siti.

Elder Price’s story ends. His arms outstretched; his face red. He looks lit up from the inside, like a candle of joy burns in his very soul, and he asks if anyone wants a copy of his little book.

 _Yes_! Nabulungi wants a copy, she wants this book, she wants to know the way to paradise! Was this what was in them all along? Nabulungi raises her hand, and- Asmeret, with her sharp tongue, asks "What the fuck is a steak knife?"

Nabulungi's loved ones disperse like ants in the rain. Elder Price's face falls; Nabulungi turns away. But there is still something in the air, a feeling that doesn’t fade. Even as the general takes another soul from their village, even with his threats in the air, even as Baba yells in her face, Nabulungi knows: these new missionaries really have brought hope.

* * *

All Nabulungi has to do is get everyone to listen. Elder Price will do the rest, he and his Book of Mormon, but Nabulungi knows her village; she knows it will be hard to change their minds. They think the white boys are crazy and stupid, but Nabulungi knows better now. She’s the best English speaker in her village, and her people love her; she can convince the white boys to stay, and her friends to give them a chance. That is all they need, and Nabulungi is the perfect person to do it.

As soon as Baba returns to say the general has left Kitgali, she types out a message on the texting device she found to send around to everyone. She’ll give it to Kimbay first. Kimbay is the schoolteacher, so she can read the message and tell everyone, and they will believe her. While Kimbay shares, Nabulungi will go speak to Elder Price. She’ll give him his own message, one begging him to stay, to return to her village, to open everyone’s eyes the way he opened hers, and show them the way to paradise.

Nabulungi presses her hand to her mouth, holding back a squeal. They’re going, they’re really _going_ ; they have a way to salvation now. Real salvation, real freedom… she thought it wasn’t true for so long. How many missionaries have come through, promising this thing which Elder Price really can give?

Nabulungi shakes her head, and tries to find even better words to use. She must convince Elder Price it is worth it to come teach her village, and her village his words are worth hearing. Then, and only then, will they have their chance. Nabulungi puts her head down, and keeps typing.  

* * *

Kimbay’s part goes without problems; she reads the text, and even though she gives Nabulungi a look, disbelieving and wary, Nabulungi has faith in her.

The problem comes when she searches for Elder Price, and finds Elder Cunningham instead.

He sniffles; there are tear tracks on his round cheeks.

“Where is your friend?” she asks. Companion; companions are supposed to stay together at all times, Elder McKinley’s rule book says so, but Nabulungi can’t see him anywhere.

“I, uh… I don’t have any friends.”

“No, I have written Elder Price a text! Here!” Nabulungi shoves it into his hands, still looking around as if Elder Price will appear, like he should. “It says to please come back to the village; we are ready.”

“To do what?” Elder Cunningham asks, blinking.

“To _listen_ to him,” she says. To listen, to escape; ready for the body they buried today to be the last. Elder Price has to be here to read her text. “I texted everyone that we have to give Elder Price a chance!”

“I’m sorry,” Elder Cunningham says. He holds out her note, and- “He’s requested a transfer.”

Nabulungi steps forward to take it back, and keeps smiling, even though her heart skips every other beat. “What is a transfer?”

“It means… he’s being sent somewhere else.”

Nabulungi’s heart stops. “No,” she says. “No, he can’t leave! We are ready to listen!” That is all they can do, listen; Elder Price is the one who has to lead them. Nabulungi can’t do that. Elder Price has to _stay_!

“It’s too late,” Elder Cunningham answers, smiling a sickly, weak smile. “He’s already made up his mind.”

How could he? His face, in the village center today- Nabulungi _saw_ him, she saw the joy in Elder Price, and his determination to share his news of paradise. How could things have changed so fast?

Nabulungi clutches at her text. The words she worried over fold and crease, but it doesn’t matter now. Elder Price wants to leave here, now. He doesn’t want this text, and the message it sends.

Nabulungi turns to go.

Three steps, and she stops. Elder Cunningham sniffles again, behind her.

“What about you?” she asks. What _about_ him? He is not tall, or handsome, or any of the things Nabulungi saw in Elder Price today, but since they came here together, maybe he knows what his companion was meant to say.

Elder Cunningham looks up, and behind those panes of glass his eyes go wide.

“M-me?”

“He is gone, but _you_ are still here,” Nabulungi says. And, after all, wasn’t that what all the missionaries did wrong before? They left, they abandoned Kitgali, before anything could get better. The only ones who have done anything have been the white boys in the mission house, and only because they stayed. “You will lead us! Teach us everything about what is in the Book of Mormon.”

His eyes get wider. He backs up, tripping over roots arching up from the ground, and holds up his hands like Nabulungi gave a threat instead of an offering. “ _Me_?” he repeats. “No. _No_ , I’m a- a follower.”

Nabulungi comes forward. “Everyone is waiting,” she says. _Everyone needs this_. She grabs Elder Cunningham’s pudgy shoulder, and makes him look her in the eye. She will not lose this chance now, because one boy ran away. “Come back to the village, and you will have your listeners. I swear it.” 

* * *

Nabulungi thinks she’s made a mistake, at first. Elder Cunningham talks nothing like Elder Price, and he doesn’t even have the comforting, steady voice of Elder McKinley. He fumbles with the words in his little black book, and the village does not hide their glares.

“We are learning _nothing_ , Nabulungi!” Baba hisses. “Look at him; he does not know what he is saying!”

Elder Cunningham doesn’t. Not like Elder Price;  but he is their only chance. The white boys in the mission house, even Elder McKinley, couldn’t get the people of her village to listen. And, they don’t have the time to waste- General Butt-fucking-Naked sinks his teeth into a village and never lets go. The village needs the path to Sal Tlay Ka Siti _now_.

Nabulungi feels a hand squeezing the breath from her lungs and knows this is it; this is all they have.

“Please, Baba,” Nabulungi pleads. “We just need to listen!”

But people are walking away. Kalimba stands, stone-faced; Ghali grumbles about having to sit through ‘stupid shit,’ and even kind-hearted Sadaka turns to go, her words tinged with bitterness.

Nabulungi gets up, ready to beg on her knees if that’s what it takes, when Elder Cunningham surprises them all.

In an instant, the mumbled words and ducked head are gone. Elder Cunningham glances at his book, but the enthusiasm, that _glow_ Elder Price had yesterday are back in Elder Cunningham’s face. The ancient Mormons, he says, dealt with AIDS. They had warlords of their own; they had women who were circumcised, and men who were punished for it. One by one, Nabulungi’s friends return to the benches they drew up, in the village center, and lean in to listen. Elder Cunningham tells them stories better than Elder Price’s, and Nabulungi sees the hard lines of their faces soften. They are listening; they are learning, so Elder Cunningham can lead them to Sal Tlay Ka Siti.

Nabulungi can’t stop grinning.

In days, the village is transformed. There are smiles on every corner, songs raised to the heavens; _happy_ ones, for the first time in Nabulungi’s memory. There is no wedding to bring them about, or new shipment from the Red Cross. It is all because of Elder Cunningham. Nabulungi’s plan is working.

They are not so far from Sal Tlay Ka Siti now, she thinks. As much of the village as possible gathers to listen for hours every day. When Elder Cunningham’s throat goes hoarse, they tell the stories back, memorizing them to share with those who can’t be there, working or sick or caring for their families. The village shares, and every moment he can, Elder Cunningham keeps preaching.

Nabulungi does not go to the mission house. She does not see Elder McKinley, or any of the white boys. She wonders, once, where they are, and what they are doing now that Kitgali is finally listening, but then Elder Cunningham clears his throat and waves his Book of Mormon in the air, and she snaps to attention. Every word he says, she must hear. This is her way to salvation. Besides, when they are all one church, Nabulungi can talk to them all as much as she wants.

Nabulungi doesn’t just listen, though. She works. Elder Cunningham rises well after the sun, and returns to the mission house only an hour or so after it sets. In those hours, Nabulungi cooks and cleans and cares for those who need it. She brings food for herself and Elder Cunningham for midday, and the rest she parcels out to the children who play at his feet. She picks up the bottles and broken toys and bits of garbage littering the village center after everyone leaves for their homes. She changes the bandages and blankets of the sick old women, their daughters surrounded by screaming children, saving those daughters a precious few hours so they can listen to Elder Cunningham before returning home. Nabulungi ventures her first real prayer, modeled after the prayer Elder Cunningham shows them all in the Bible, and asks only that those who can only come for a short time hear what they need to know for paradise.

Nabulungi sleeps too hard to dream, but if she did, she knows Sal Tlay Ka Siti is all she would see. Days pass; Baba holds a hand to her forehead one morning and asks if she is sick, but Nabulungi shakes her head.

“I do not have a fever, Baba,” she says. “I am excited; we are almost ready to join the church! Elder Cunningham said so, yesterday, he said he was teaching us everything he knew!”

Baba frowns at his bowl of millet _posho_ , and does not answer.

“Baba,” Nabulungi murmurs, leaning in. “We are _so close_. Do you see? Elder Cunningham will give us the answer.”

“Nabulungi, do you think you believe in him too much?”

“No, Baba! How could you say that?” Nabulungi clasps his hand. “Elder Cunningham is going to lead us to paradise!”

“...he is helping,” Baba admits. “Though, he eats as much as Abigail. Too bad we can’t fill him up with grass like her.”

Nabulungi giggles. “Do not worry, Baba,” she says. “Everyone is willing to share their food now, and soon… everything will be better soon.”

* * *

Nabulungi is baptized that day. She did not know, before Elder Cunningham’s hands found her shoulders and pushed her under the water of the Aringa River, what it was for, except to join the church. Why dunk someone in water? What does it do?

But when she climbs up the bank, her dress clinging to her legs and her hair in her eyes, Nabulungi _knows_ ; she can feel it.

She is a part of the church now. Nabulungi is a Latter-Day Saint.

“Heavenly Father bless you, Elder Cunningham!” she says, tugging him up and out of the water. “Oh, Elder Cunningham, I-!” Nabulungi pulls a little too hard; Elder Cunningham trips, as he always seems to do. Their lips meet, and Nabulungi’s eyes fly open. They close the next instant, though, and even though Elder Cunningham tries to mumble something against her mouth Nabulungi lifts her free hand to cup his face, and makes a proper kiss out of it. This man who baptized her… Nabulungi thinks she could start to love him.

But he is a busy man, their Prophet Cunningham, and now that Nabulungi has been baptized, she must share the news with the whole village, so they can be baptised, too.

“I will text you later,” she promises, face hot, and Elder Cunningham waves that little wave as she leaves.

* * *

Nabulungi walks on air for the rest of that week. Baba says so; “I’d like to pull you down,” he says. “Nabulungi, you need to-”

“ _You_ need to have faith, Baba. You need to be baptized.” Nabulungi sighs. “You will understand then.”

So Baba becomes the second person in Kitgali to succumb to the water and emerge, a new being. Elder McKinley is the one who holds his arms, and bends him back. It’s the first Nabulungi has seen of the district leader in days. He’s so proud, though, beaming and red-faced as Baba scrambles up out of the reeds, that she doesn’t try to speak with him. No; Nabulungi spends the day running through the village, urging everyone who can to go to the river, for the elders to wash away their sins. She traces and retraces old paths, little trails between clumps of earth and stubborn weeds, and she calls out to every house.

“Hurry!” Nabulungi cries. “Hurry; at the river is the way to salvation!”

She cries this even as blades of exhaustion stab through her soles and her steps start to slow. It is only when the sun has gone down that Nabulungi remembers she hasn’t eaten since the night before; she has not milked Abigail; she has not gotten fresh water. And there is nothing to eat for dinner.

The village is dark, and there is a loosely-joined crowd, making its way back from the river’s edge by torchlight. Nabulungi sees flashes of white shirts with black ties, and thinks no one else will be baptized tonight. She turns towards home, closing her eyes against even the thought of trying to grind millet or maize to eat, when her name rises up over the crowd.

It’s Elder Cunningham, looking worse for the day’s wear. But he grins when he sees her, and takes her hands and twirls her around. Nabulungi smiles back, and stumbles over her own aching feet.

“The mission president’s gonna give me a _medal_!” Elder Cunningham declares. “Isn’t that _awesome_? ‘Cause I told him we were gonna baptize a whole bunch of people, and then we actually _did_ , so I wasn’t making anything up and he was really impressed and everything, and he’s gonna come here!”

“Elder Cunningham, that is amazing!” Nabulungi replies. She smiles, but it doesn’t feel natural or easy; it’s hard to bring the faint joy hiding under the exhaustion to the surface. “I… I am so happy.”

“Yeah?” he asks. The torch nearest them flickers; his face is red in the golden light. “It really is great, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is,” Nabulungi says. “You have done a wonderful thing for our village.”

Elder Cunningham doesn’t let go, though, and Nabulungi can’t keep her smile up long.

“Since it’s so great and all, I was, uh, wondering…” He tightens his grip. “You could come back to the mission house tonight. Talk about the, uh, the church and stuff. We could…” Elder Cunningham looks over his shoulder and does this thing with his eyes Nabulungi thinks might be a wink.

Baba clears his throat.

Elder Cunningham might have been shot for how he reacts; jumping back and turning white, babbling about how he never meant- he wasn’t going to- it wasn’t what it _sounded_ -

“Heavenly Father bless you,” Nabulungi murmurs. “And goodnight, Elder.”

“Yeah, okay,” he replies, even as Baba wraps a firm arm around her shoulders and leads her towards their hut. “Uh, goodnight.”

* * *

Nabulungi can’t sleep. She is tired, yes, down to her very bones, but her mind traces the same thoughts it has for days now; she can’t stop working. They are _this close_ to paradise. Once the mission president comes-

Nabulungi gasps. That must be why Elder Cunningham is so excited! The mission president is the one who could get Elder Price transferred, he told her one time, so it must be the mission president who will buy them all tickets to Sal Tlay Ka Siti. Nabulungi can’t rest _now_! Everything must be absolutely perfect when the mission president comes. Kitgali can’t be anything like the village it used to be. They have learned so much from Elder Cunningham, and Nabulungi must make the mission president see that.

A play! A story, like Elder Cunningham’s and Elder Price’s but _better_ , bigger-! She’ll get the whole village into it, as many of her friends as will participate, and they’ll show the mission president how happy the Book of Mormon, and the Mormon church, has made them. They are part of the church now, but that must be enough to get them to paradise.

With silent steps, Nabulungi scoops up her texting device and heads out into the moonlight to start writing a script.

* * *

The next day is… kind of a blur. The mission president will come from Kampala, she learns, at midday. “They are coming by car!” Kimbay tells her, as Nabulungi massages poor Abigail’s swollen, over-full teats. “Our prophet says the mission president has a car of his own, can you believe it? How rich must he be?”

“Earthly wealth should not be our focus,” Nabulungi reminds her, but then Abigail kicks out, and Nabulungi curses at the blow to her side.

“Should not, maybe, but it doesn’t hurt anything,” Kimbay responds, raising her eyes to the heavens. “I wouldn’t complain about a little earthly wealth with our salvation.”

“But Sal Tlay Ka Siti-” Nabulungi starts. It has _everything_ ; they won’t need earthly wealth there. What is Kimbay talking about?

Abigail doesn’t want to wait, though, and twists back against her tether so hard she chokes herself. Nabulungi fights with the knot around the goat’s neck, and forgets what Kimbay had to say.

Somehow, by the power of a miracle, Nabulungi’s play is ready when the shining white car arrives, pulling up the bus stop. There are two boys inside that would fit right in up at the mission house, but then a man gets out, and- and he looks like the picture of Joseph Smith Elder Cunningham showed them. He smiles down at Asmeret’s oldest boy, patting his hair, and with the light behind him he could even look like Jesus.

Nabulungi almost cries.

Her things are packed; her play is ready. The mission president greets Elder Cunningham, Elder McKinley, and someone she doesn’t recognize as Elder Price until he’s called Elder Cunningham’s _companion_ , and Nabulungi can’t stop smiling. They are minutes from Sal Tlay Ka Siti now.

She can sleep on the bus.

And the play goes off without a hitch. Baba remembers his lines; _everyone_ remembers their lines, the costumes don’t fall apart, the stage frame Mututho put together after Prophet Cunningham’s story about the Christmas pageant at the grandest of grand temples holds up, even when Nabulungi knocks her elbow against the side. Everything is perfect.

Until she sees the mission president’s face. Gone is the beatific smile, gone is any sort of affection or warmth or approval. He looks… he looks _horrified_.

Nabulungi’s eyes flick to Elder McKinley’s face, then Elder Price’s, then Neeley’s and Davis’ and Poptarts’ and Church’s and everyone looks the same. They’re all sick to their stomachs; something has gone wrong.

Nabulungi misstepped; she misspoke. Maybe she said Joseph Smith’s name wrong, or Brigham Young’s- she is the best English speaker, but the names are hard. Maybe… maybe the music was too loud, or too much; maybe she should have talked more about some of the other stories Elder Cunningham told. What did she do wrong? Nabulungi thought it was just like Elder Price’s version, but with all the good things their prophet told, and Elder McKinley- Elder McKinley said it was _just_ what the mission president needed to see! So what is wrong?!

She follows the boys when the mission president calls them. She doesn’t look back, she doesn’t say a word; Nabulungi clutches at the script she wrote last night. She sees, just now, how many words are missing letters or in the wrong place; she sees how uneven the lines are, how dirty the paper.

What has she done?

But there’s yelling; the mission president, raising his voice, and Elder McKinley apologizing-

“What is going on?” she asks. Elder Cunningham is crying again.

“What is going on,” the mission president says, “is that you have all brought ridicule down onto the Latter-Day Saints.” He’s not looking at her. He looks above her, at the white boys and their turned-away faces, and Nabulungi doesn’t understand. She thinks, though, she’s starting to get the passages Elder Cunningham skipped, about how Heavenly Father was an angry God.

“But we are all Latter-Day Saints now,” she says. She clutches her script to her chest, and the white boys still will not look at her, they don’t say anything, they just-

“You and your people are about as far from being Latter-Day Saints as it gets,” the mission presidents spits. “You _all_ are!”

No; no! After everything they have learned? “Elder Cunningham, tell him,” she urges, “tell him; we are ready to go to Sal Tlay Ka Siti! My… my things are packed.”

It’s not the mission president’s words that do it. It’s not that Elder McKinley won’t meet her eyes. It’s when Elder Cunningham looks at her, and gently touches her arm, and says “I’m so sorry, Naba. I never actually meant you were… _going_ to Salt Lake City.”

“But… you said that we could find paradise, by listening to you,” she hears herself say.

“Well, when we say that, we mean… paradise within yourself,” Elder Cunningham explains. “It’s… you know, it’s sort of like, uh, a Jesus thing.” He rests his hand on her shoulder.

Nabulungi jerks away.

Everything falls into place, now. Everything, all the things Nabulungi was missing, every reason why this missionaries seemed _so different_ from the ones who came before, finally make sense.

She’s not going anywhere. The village will stay right where it is, and this paradise…

“I see,” she says. “So, when you baptized me, it meant nothing.”  
Elder Cunningham steps back like she slapped him, but Nabulungi doesn’t stop.

“Uncircumcised women are going to have their families killed!” she cries. “My Baba… The general is coming! Where am I supposed to _go_?” Where will everyone go? They’ve stood up to him now, all of Kitgali, and there is no way General Butt-Fucking Naked hasn’t heard about it. He will know, and he will kill them all, because warlords have no mercy. They never have; they never will.

“I know what you people are now,” she says, looking away from Elder Cunningham. Her gaze sweeps over all their faces, even the mission president. Even Elder McKinley. “You travel from your sparkling, lovely paradise, in Ooh-tah, to tell ridiculous stories to people less fortunate, to make fun of them!”

And Nabulungi thought these white boys were kind; she thought they were _different_. This is even worse than the missionaries who came before. Those ones never meant to do harm. But these…

“No!” Elder Cunningham starts, but his time to speak is over. Nabulungi does not let him finish.

“ _You_ -!” she says. “You… have crushed my soul.” Again, she looks at the white boys. Again, no one looks back. “I hope you all had a good laugh.”

Nabulungi runs.

* * *

The familiar paths and familiar trees give way to strange, dark, unfamiliar ones. Nabulungi goes far from her village, and keeps going. The dress and robe Sadaka gave to her, out of the trunk of soft, unstained fabrics and shining trinkets her brother bought before he died, catches, snags, and tears. Nabulungi does not stop.

She lost her script somewhere back there. _Good_ , she thinks. _Let it be trampled into the dirt._

It’s no good now; it never was. Elder Cunningham and all his stories, all the things he taught them were lies. Useless. Worth as much as the mud that sticks to her feet.

And Nabulungi _believed_ them! Nabaulungi had faith in them. She told everyone in the village… she said… She thought they brought hope! When every time before, no one ever did; not even the other Mormons. Who does she have to blame?

 _How many times_ , she prays, running, running, running. _Heavenly Father, how many times must I hope and be disappointed?_    
Nabulungi stops. She stands up tall. She throws her head to the sky. The sun is setting, and the light is strange and fierce. Her chest heaves, and keeps heaving, even after she should have gotten her breath back.  
"No more," she mutters. Her teeth clench and grind. "No more."  
_Hasa diga, Eebowai_.

* * *

Emptiness follows anger. Nabulungi stumbles over the trailing edges of her white robe on the way back, in the dark, and only wants her Baba to hug her, to tell her there are worse things. There are, there _are_ , and those are coming, but for now, Nabulungi is crushed, like a bug beneath a heel.

Her friends, her family - Asmeret, Kalimba, Ghali, _Baba_ \- they all rush to her side, asking what the mission president said, what Prophet Cunningham thought of their play, and Nabulungi’s tongue weighs heavy in her mouth.

 _There is no way out_ , she thinks. _I tried, and I could not find paradise._ _I could not save any of us_.

So, she lies. Eaten by lions, she says; that’s one Baba will never believe, and yet he and everyone believes it, crying out in lamentation. A cry, the likes of which none of the village has had the strength to make in years.

The general puts a stop to it. He is there, then, in front of her with his guns and his men and his shouts and Nabulungi feels none of the energy she had, listening to Elder Cunningham’s wild stories. Elder Cunningham is not here; he was a _fraud_ , all of them were, and she can call none of them her friends. Even with her village behind her, Nabulungi is alone.

She crumbles; she bows her head. She says they will do whatever the general says.

The gasps that follow sting more than the words themselves. Nabulungi closes her eyes even as Sadaka says _We must not give up on our hope_.

“But it was all a lie!” she cries. All of it, every word. From the beginning, all the white boys ever meant to do was be _right_ , be good and holy. They didn’t care about her, or her village. Just their precious religion. Their precious baptisms. The paradise they could keep for themselves.

And she tried to comfort them. She tried- she thought they would do the same for her. But now, here she is, facing the general. Facing his guns, and the shame he brings with him. The blood he will draw from her body, and the pain his knife will cause. Facing her father’s back, as he shields her, and facing the fact that she will lose the last of her family this day.

“Nabulungi,” Kimbay says, scowling. “You didn’t actually think we were going to Sal Tlay Ka Siti, did you?”

The world stops.

“Sal Tlay Ka Siti isn’t an actual _place_ ,” she spits. “It’s an idea; a metaphor.”

Metaphor - a symbolic thing, nothing real.

It was never real.

Nabulungi was the only one to think it ever was. The rest of the village laughs, patting her back as they assure her it was all a trick of speech, from the beginning.

So what did they all believe in?

It does not matter. The general shouts, and the world spins again, speeding up until Nabulungi can’t hold her feet under her and Baba is holding out his arms and bracing for a bullet and she _cannot_ lose anyone else today-

“Uh, hey, guys.”

It’s Elder Cunningham.

If Nabulungi thought she had seen joy before, it is nothing compared to the looks on the faces she sees around her. Elder Cunningham ducks his head and waves sheepishly, even as the cries of exultation rend the air. The noise turns Nabulungi’s head, and she cannot, _does_ not believe her eyes when she sees General Butt-fucking-Naked turn tail and run.

But maybe… maybe she does understand. Maybe she saw, for a second, how something as simple as a person - not an idea, not a place; not paradise - could give people a gift so great it eased the pain of this world. Maybe it was Elder Cunningham, and the way he looked at people and not through them, the way he made up stories for them, the way he smiled at the smallest things - the way he cares - that made her people so happy.

Nabulungi remembers the way the white boys’ faces lost their bright grins, and how Elder Cunningham and Elder Price’s arrival brought them back for everyone, and she thinks maybe Kimbay is right.

Sal Tlay Ka Siti isn’t an actual place. It never was.

So Nabulungi says she understands. Elder Cunningham doesn’t seem to, but Kalimba sweeps him up in a bear hug and Gotswana claps him on the back so hard he loses his breath, and Nabulungi does not stick around.

She reaches her hut in a daze. She pets Abigail on the head; she unlatches the door, and steps in. She kicks aside the rat curled up by the door, and takes a whole two steps before her knees give out. Nabulungi hits the ground so hard she’ll have bruises in the morning, and she doesn’t get up until Baba stumbles in, blind drunk, and she has to pick them both up off the floor.

* * *

It is hard, knowing where to go from there. Figuring things out, finding her footing again. The world Nabulungi knew her place in changed that day. The things she believed in disappeared, and left her behind.

She has something to fill the place, though. Baba tells her, through his squinting and grumbling the next morning, “The white boys decided to stay. All of them, idiots.”

Nabulungi has those boys, and the hope they brought. She may not be the hope of the village anymore, but at least she knows who, or what, is. She knows why. And she… she loves the mission house, north of the village, with its blue door and hand-painted sign, its porch and its little, struggling garden. She did, and she still does, no matter how it hurts.

There is a feeling of relief that pricks at her, a few days later, when she sits in Elder Cunningham’s audience as he tells the story of the mission president's visit to the people in Palabek, to the east. She does not have to carry the weight alone, now, of her own village. She loves them; but to see their faces as they watch the newcomers, unfamiliar with their prophet’s teachings, gasp and frown and laugh, while she does nothing at all…

It is beautiful, in a way.

Beyond that, Nabulungi is still lost.

She stays away from the mission house for three days. She takes care of Abigail, stroking the goat’s pregnant belly and lavishing care on her instead of rushing off, the way she has been. Poor Abigail has been neglected, and she makes sure to let Nabulungi know. Bleats and headbutts accompany Nabulungi’s every attempt to at least take the milk inside, or fetch a brush for the goat’s coarse hair.

Nabulungi sweeps the inside of her hut, also, and shakes out the blankets on she and her father’s beds, and fills up the jars for water, and shells peanuts until her fingers are sore. She keeps her hands busy, and her mind clear.

The fourth day she wakes up, something is different. Nabulungi’s eyes never blink the sleep away; it sticks to her and blurs her sight. She shakes her head to clear it, again and again, and…

She walks. She is walking, but she does not remember leaving. She watches her feet tread the well-worn path north, through the heart of the village. The morning is cool; the dust shifts between her toes. Nabulungi thinks, looking up at the dark sky, that there will be rain by noon. The mission house emerges from the trees. Nabulungi slows, but she does not stop.  

It’s Elder Davis who answers the door. He looks exactly as he has every other time she’s seen him, except his tie is gone, and the top button to his shirt is unbuttoned.  
She frowns.

“Oh, Nabulungi,” he greets, leaning his weight against the doorframe and smiling. “It’s been a while; we missed you over here. Did you hear we’re staying?”

“Yes,” she answers, “my Baba told me.” Her voice sounds far away.

“Yeah, well, we’re not sure how we’re going to make it work yet, but Elder McKinley… um. Were you there when he-? I guess not.” Davis ducks his head, but the smile is back when he meets her eyes again. “Anyway, we’ll stick around for a while, for sure. I bet you’re glad to hear that.”

She stares at him.

“Because of Elder Cunningham,” he elaborates. “Don’t you two have a… a thing?”

“When he baptized me?” she asks.

“Yeah, that.”

“...what is ‘a thing’?”

Davis purses his lips. “How about I just go get him?”

“No,” she says. He stops. “Could I see Elder McKinley, please?”

“Elder McKinley? Uh…” Elder Davis looks over his shoulder into the hidden reaches of the mission house, and suddenly Nabulungi can hear singing. Very loud singing. “Yeah, I’ll get him.”

Elder McKinley comes out in a flurry of movement, sporting a pink tie and unnaturally bright eyes. “Hi, Miss Hatimbi! Or, or _Nabulungi_ , or Sister- do you have a preference?”

She shakes her head.

He beams. “Great! Nabulungi it is, then. How’ve you been? Long time, no see, I feel like. And, well, I _have_ decided to _let my feelings out_. Ha! Isn’t that great? It’s been an interesting few days over here, I can tell you, and we just haven’t had any real time to _get out_ and come see anyone, so my apologies for that.” Elder McKinley clasps his hands and bounces on his toes.

Nabulungi squints. There are dark circles under his eyes again, and the longer she looks, the stranger his excitement is.

“When did you sleep?” she asks.

“Oh, I haven’t slept in days, but that’s _fine_ ; it’s really fine! The important question is how are _you_ , Sister?” A beat. “Nabulungi.” Another, and- “I’m sorry, I really am, but… could I say ‘Miss Hatimbi’? I really am trying, but I just… it doesn’t feel right, and I don’t-”

“It is fine, Elder,” Nabulungi says.

Now it is his turn to frown, to narrow his eyes and lean towards her and ask “Is everything all right?” He wants to say more, she can tell, but he bites his lip instead of talking and that makes something snap, deep in her belly. The last thing she sees clearly, as her vision clouds and her throat tightens and her chest aches with the storm about to break, is Elder McKinley’s eyes as they widen.

“Oh, my,” he says. “Gosh, Miss Hatimbi, I didn’t… I didn’t know you were…”

She waves a hand at him and turns her back. His footsteps approach, though, even and slow, and he rests his palm on her back. She shudders.

“Miss Hatimbi?”

“What?” she croaks.

“Did you… I… were…” Elder McKinley huffs. “Have you spoken with anyone, since… what happened, a few days ago?”

Nabulungi shakes her head, once.

“And… and you left, if I’m correct, right after the mission president said- what he said. Is that right?”

She nods.

“And you weren’t at the party that night, either,” he mutters. “Miss Hatimbi, did anyone… try and find you? To talk, afterwards, or…?”

Again, Nabulungi shakes her head.

Elder McKinley sighs. “I really am a bad district leader,” he says.

Nabulungi wonders what _that_ has to do with anything, and tries hard for a moment to get back under control. She sniffs, and straightens out her shoulders again, and is just about to turn around to face him and say goodbye - it was a mistake to come - when Elder McKinley’s hand moves. It slides across her shoulder blades, and comes around to cup her upper arm; Nabulungi finds herself in the most awkward side-hug she’s ever had.

“I know it isn’t much, anymore,” he murmurs, “but, Miss Hatimbi, you _are_ a part of the church, all right? A… an important part. And I think… I think I should have let you know that, before-” Nabulungi turns to cling to him. Elder McKinley’s words cut off with a jolt.

“Before everything went wrong.”

Elder McKinley’s chest is very warm; probably from all those stupid layers he wears. Nabulungi almost laughs, but instead it’s a sob making its way up her throat and she bites her tongue, hard.

“No one should have told you otherwise,” he says, quietly. “Certainly not the mission president, no matter what any of the rest of us did. Elder Cunningham may have… said some incorrect things, but he was right on one count: we do let anyone who wants to join the church, and I’ve never seen anyone as passionate about it as you, Miss Hatimbi.

“I should have said something before. I… I know I should have, and I’m sorry, but this... it’s been hard for me, being district leader. I don’t think I’m quite cut out for it. And- well, you know about my… what I…”

He trails off, his hand rubbing her back.

“Your testimony,” she whispers.

“Y- yes; that.” He didn’t think she would remember; she feels it, in the hitch in his breath. With her cheek pressed against his chest like this, she can feel every breath in and out. She feels his pulse, thudding under her ear.

Nabulungi smiles; it’s very shaky and very small.

“It’s hard living out here,” he continues. “And that’s for me, with a house provided, and food and clothes and all that. I can’t imagine… for you, what it… the things you’ve…”

But Nabulungi knows the things she’s seen, the things she’s been through. She doesn’t need to think of them again. So she squeezes him tight, murmurs “Shut up,” and keeps holding on when he does.

Nabulungi is strong. In a minute or so she’ll let go, straighten up, smile and thank him and walk away like nothing was ever wrong. But for now she lets Elder McKinley comfort her; she replays his words of belonging in her head over and over, like the boys did with her record player. She whispers in his ear that she didn’t sleep much, either, and smiles into his collar when he chuckles and it vibrates against her body.

“Miss Hatimbi?” he ventures, finally. “It’s- definitely against the rules, but after everything that’s happened I don’t… well…”

Elder McKinley hesitates. Nabulungi listens.

“What I mean to say is, you’ve been kind to us here, all of us, but… me in particular. You are… I have to say you’re one of my closest friends. You listened to me. S-so, if you… if you ever want to talk, feel free to, to drop on by. And I’ll listen.”

“...really?” Nabulungi asks.

“Of course,” Elder McKinley answers, more confident now. “Any time, day or night. Though… walking here at night sounds dangerous.”

She giggles. “There are the robbers, and the murderers,” she says.

“And the lions and the snakes and the AIDS,” Elder McKinley replies, and she can hear him smiling. “I heard what you said to Elder Price and Elder Cunningham. It wasn’t right to scare them like that.”

“It’s all true!” Nabulungi says, sniffling only once. “All of those things _can_ get you if you do not close the window.”

“Even the AIDS?”

“ _Especially_ the AIDS.”

* * *

So the white boys stay; Nabulungi makes trips to their house again. Not as light-footed, maybe, but that is good. General Butt-Fucking-Naked may be leaving them alone, but there are other dangers, and when one or another of them offers to walk her back, her tread lightens again.

She goes to the mission house, even when Elder McKinley spends an entire day on the phone with the mission president, and the sound of him crying filters through the door. She goes to the mission house, even when she finds out that Elder Price was going to say the same thing about paradise as Elder McKinley would have, had she asked (“I did not realize your teachings were about paradise.” “What did you _think_ they were about? That’s- that’s one of the most central ideas of our doctrine!”). She goes to the mission house, even when Elder McKinley and Elder Cunningham fight about re-baptizing the village, and ‘following the rules’ this time around, and teaching everyone right.She goes to the mission house, even when Abigail has her triplets and one of the babies is too weak to live past the morning, costing Baba food and money they can’t afford to lose, and none of the elders understand.

Nabulungi goes to the mission house, even when she stumbles across Elder Cunningham being kissed by Elder Price against the wall when they think no one is there, and Elder Cunningham kissing back.

Nabulungi thinks there is a sort of magic at the mission house. Elder Price would scoff and tell her there’s no such thing as magic, in that upturned-nose way of his. Elder Cunningham would grin nod and make up some fantastic story about how magical the house is. Elder McKinley would probably call it the feeling of peace all followers of Heavenly Father feel in a blessed place.

But, as Nabulungi drags Baba down the path towards it, towards the dinner they were invited to share on one preparation day’s night, she thinks maybe it’s because the mission house is a place of hope. She smiles, and runs a little faster.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave comments/kudos if you liked it!


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